Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did I would never leave my bedroom.

Apologies for the wait, this was a long chapter and it took a while to get right. I'm still not completely happy with it. We're very nearly at the end now...

Enjoy.

There are times when all the intricate motions and sounds and sights that make up the world fall apart and become little more than impressions; globs of paint streaked along a canvas in no real shape or texture; something akin to the way sunlight shifts and flares when it flows through water. These times are rarely remembered in any detail. They exist on the very brink of memories, too strange to forget, too obscure to re-imagine.

"No, excuse me, you're not allowed in here, his condition is far too serious..."

"I fail to see how my being here will affect his condition."

Hard, cold plastic pressing against his face. Oxygen mask. Thin air. Still so hard to breathe... hurts so much...

"All the same, Mr. Holmes, if you'll just-"

"No, I don't think so. I'm staying here. If you have a problem, you can take it up with my brother."

Occasionally, they almost seem as if they should mean something. Names or places crop up, or sometimes simply the muffled voices are enough to spark off a thought. But in the limbo between life and death, thought never seems to get very far at all.

"Lost a lot of blood, coupled... severe concussion... complications..."

Cool air conditioning tearing across his skin. Eyes open - white. Harsh white. Eyes close fast. Brain stalls at the blinding glare.

"Puncture's much worse than we... Large collections of air and fluid in between the lung tissue... No choice but to operate..."

Fingertips tingle. Sensation of falling. Needles prick through skin with a sharp sting. Head is swirling.

Inside that immeasurable gap, time never seems to pick up again. It stops in its tracks and watches with you as the world speeds on in some other dimension. Here, everything is so much slower. So much more distant.

"I - don't - care. He doesn't like it here, I can tell."

"He's unconscious, Sherlock, he has no idea whether he likes it here or not. Just because you've always hated hospitals..."

Skin against his skin. Fingers probing. Light shining in his eyes, blinking on and off.

"No... Look! Just look... absolutely no idea..."

"And how exactly do you propose..."

Louder voices, anger, arguments, frustration. Beeping. Squeak of rubber shoes on a polished floor. Cold.

"... resources... got people, haven't you? Just... Thank you, Mycroft."

When it finally comes to an end, real life doesn't seem right anymore. All of a sudden, you can find that you've forgotten how to be real at all.

"Careful... No, I'll do it... Mrs. Hudson... Yes... Home... alright..."

Mycroft Holmes liked to think that he was a patient man. He liked to think that he at least attempted to be polite, kept his temper, and rarely allowed himself to be swayed by the tantrums of his petulant and childish little brother. Of course, what Mycroft liked to think didn't always go to plan. It was... difficult... to be patient with Sherlock sometimes.

"Well, are you staying for tea?"

Sherlock's voice, dripping with sarcasm, trembled as he shot a glare at his brother. His face was worn and pale, his eyes ringed with darkness. Mycroft surveyed him quietly, savagely enjoying the way that Sherlock fidgetted beneath his gaze, tried to busy himself with something else. His hand crept uncertainly across the sheets of the bed beside him, stopped inches away from the fingers lying motionless on top of them. Then, abruptly, he pushed his hands into his pockets, picked at nothing on his dressing gown, and finally turned his icy eyes back to Mycroft.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

Sherlock made a noise of frustration low in his throat. Mycroft leaned against the door frame to allow the nurse past him into the room, tracing the handle of his umbrella with his finger tips. The nurse - now the only outsider allowed into Baker Street - made her way over to the side of the bed and began to prepare the injection she had come to administer. Sherlock watched her with eagle eyes, his lip curling as she laid out the equipment. Funny how easily any simple room could be converted into a mini-hospital. All that had been needed were sterile sheets, a few lumps of machinery carted over from Mycroft's private surgery and up the stairs of Mrs. Hudson's battered flat, and the employment of an intelligent and thick-skinned nurse who could stand Sherlock's constant snide comments and complaints. It had been done quickly - within a couple of hours, John Watson's room at Baker Street had been transformed into a tiny private hospital.

Because, of course, Sherlock always had to be difficult.

Mycoft was used to getting strange calls from his little brother. What he was not used to was getting strange calls from DI Lestrade, yapping in a garbled voice that one of the agents had been a traitor, that Sherlock and John were being taken to a hospital, that Moriarty had been involved... On his way to the hospital, Mycroft had vented his fury on the two other agents who were now scrabbling to come up with something useful, desperately trying to correct their terrible mistake. Smith had been in charge of the operation, had chosen his two accomplices. Mycroft had trusted Smith. And now he was extremely angry.

By the time he reached the hospital, both Smith and Jones had been severely demoted and Sherlock - who had been refusing to answer his phone - was creating hell on earth for every other person in the ER. His face was bloodless and tinged with sweat, his hands were shaking, his hair was a tangled mess and he was ranting furiously as security attempted to make him sit and calm down. Mycroft took in his limp, the way he was cradling his side, his ashen complexion and the high-pitched tremor in his voice and made a decision. In the next few seconds, Sherlock was bolting through the pair of double doors ahead and Mycroft was tucking his identification back into his pocket and collecting John's chart from the doctor before following his brother. According to said chart, John Watson had been rushed straight into emergency surgery and the medics were battling with a punctured lung. High risk injury. Blood loss coupled with unknown drug abuse meant a low survival expectancy. Mycroft considered the three possible paths fate may throw them down as he and Sherlock followed the glass signs and arrows on the walls.

A) John survives. Sherlock returns to his usual sarcastic, mocking, petty self.

B) John dies. Sherlock is depressed for a time before recovering and finding another flat mate to follow him about on his cases.

C) John dies. Sherlock does not recover.

He turned this last outcome over several times in his head, trying to see it in the best possible light, and realized quickly that it was by far the most likely and the most terrible. He wondered if Sherlock had allowed himself to reach the same conclusion yet. He opened his mouth to ask, and then closed it again with a grimace. He reached the small viewing room to the surgical theater a few paces behind Sherlock. For once, he let Sherlock's infinite mind run on without interruption.

He watched his little brother standing pressed up against the screen, one hand splayed against the glass, shoulders hunched, tension ringing through his body. Mycroft stood quietly behind him, hands folded over his umbrella. They watched in silence as tall ghosts in green gowns and masks bent over the fragile body laid out on the operating table, watched scalpels slice through skin and machines whine and gloved hands prod. The faltering heart monitor skipped and jumped; blood pumped desperately through an IV in an attempt to replenish the vast supply leaking out.

"Don't say it."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected Sherlock to say anything. And yet that hoarse, rough voice split the silence clenched over the tiny box-like room, and Sherlock turned his head ever so slightly to fix on clear green eye on Mycroft, the corner of his mouth quivering, his face painted in the weird, artificial light of the hospital.

"'Caring is not an advantage'. I know you're just itching to say it."

Mycroft rearranged his hands atop his umbrella. "I wasn't going to say anything."

Sherlock turned back to the window, his back stiff, still holding his ribs. Mycroft concluded that John hadn't had the chance to administer Sherlock's afternoon medicine and pain killers. He considered calling someone to retrieve the required pills, but then decided against it. Sherlock wasn't going to take them. So he watched and waited in silence instead.

Against his prediction - against all odds, in fact - John Watson emerged from surgery and was wheeled up to the intensive care unit with Sherlock trotting beside him, one hand on the railing of the gurney, his brows furrowed tightly. Mycroft followed a few steps behind, asking the routine questions, aware that Sherlock would be listening to every word the doctor said. It was all to be expected - critical condition, tests would be run, possible that a severe lung infection could follow, a tube had been placed in the lung to remove fluid and allow antibiotic circulation, if the next few hours went well it could take anywhere between eight weeks and three months for a full recovery, mostly depending upon complications that may or may not follow...

Mycroft allowed the words to wash over him, his own attention on the back of Sherlock's head, and on the hand that had clenched tightly over the gurney.

He ensured Sherlock's permission to stay with John before leaving. Moriarty was on his way to a secure location in the depths of the British countryside, and Mycroft intended to be there for when he arrived. On top of that the leak in their security had been far too big and far too dangerous for him to let slide. He stepped into the sleek, black car waiting for him outside the hospital and put his brother out of his mind.

He returned two days later. According to Lestrade, Sherlock had not left the hospital and did not look as if he planned to any time soon. Mycroft found him in the small, private room John had been moved to. His little brother was slouched in a straight-backed chair beside the bed, his knees hugged against his chest, his face sprinkled with stubble and his eyes slightly glazed. Mycroft read John's chart. No infection. Puncture to lungs to be checked every few hours and dressing changed daily. Tube to be removed soon. Patient currently in a drug induced coma. Unknown drug had not been identified as of yet, although it was now out of his system. Mycroft flipped through the pages, then replaced the chart and glanced at Sherlock.

"Good news, then."

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched.

"Well, now that we're out of the woods, how about returning to some basic human hygiene routines?"

Sherlock turned a glare on Mycroft, his jaw clenching. "It's hardly as if I care what these chemistry students think of me," he said.

"I see no reason for you to stay."

"What, and leave him with these people?" he sneered the word, casting a joyless smirk at the door. "They had an intern in here earlier, couldn't even remember how to work the monitor. I'm afraid my presence is absolutely necessary if John hopes to recover at all, since the staff here have no idea how to do their jobs effectively."

He spat the syllables into the air, his face twisted as if he had tasted something disgusting. His hands were trembling a little. He didn't appear to be in too much pain, despite his odd position on the chair. Apparently he had started taking his medication again, either at Lestrade's urging or the doctors'. Mycroft rolled his eyes. He knew his brother well enough to read the concern in his voice, the rejection of any kind of outside contact that could stand to destroy his most precious possession. He pulled his mobile from his pocket, sent a text to his secretary telling her to cancel his afternoon appointment with the Foreign Secretary and turned to look for a chair. He saw one across the room in a corner and dragged it over to the opposite side of the bed, settled into it with a sigh. Sherlock watched him.

"What on earth do you think you're doing, Mycroft?"

"Well, I have nowhere in particular to be," Mycroft responded flippantly. He rested his umbrella against the chair, linked his hands across his stomach. "I thought I might stay here for a little while. Keep an eye on things, perhaps."

He let that last sentence hang in the air, leaving no uncertainty about his meaning. Sherlock swallowed hard. He glanced at John, and then at Mycroft. For once, it seemed that he didn't quite know what to say. Quite abruptly, he stood up and snatched up his coat, lips parted but no sound coming out. Eventually he seemed to find the words.

"In that case, I'll go home to change. The facilities in these places are truly disgusting. I doubt it'll take long."

"Oh. Fine." Mycroft spoke lightly, studying a poster on the wall asking for donations for cancer research. The little blonde girl taking up most of the space was smiling widely.

Sherlock turned on his heel and strode over to the door, opened it. He paused on the threshold, and for a moment Mycroft thought he would flounce back again, order his brother out, demand that he stop poking his nose in things that didn't concern him. But then Sherlock had vanished into the corridor, and Mycroft was alone. He looked down at the patient in the bed beside him. A clear plastic oxygen mask obscured most of his face. His blonde hair looked slightly duller. Perhaps that was simply because his skin looked grey, slightly too thin to stand any kind of prolonged contact. Work-worn, calloused hands lay on the hospital blanket. Eyes flicked to and fro briefly beneath their lids. Mycroft found himself smiling and shook his head.

"Mr. Watson," he muttered under his breath. "What have you done to my brother?"

True to his word, Sherlock reappeared barely an hour later with brushed hair, a fresh set of clothes, and a distinctly more lively expression. As this, of course, meant that he had more energy with which to jibe at Mycroft's fluctuating diet, the elder Holmes chose this moment to excuse himself. Now convinced that the situation had been adequately handled and would play out fairly smoothly from then on, he decided to stay out of it all for a while.

At least, until he received a call from the hospital a week later complaining that Sherlock's behavior was affecting the work of the nurses, and then a short, sharp demand by text from Sherlock himself. Casting his eyes skywards and imagining what it might be like to trust your brother to play by the rules for just a little while, Mycroft set down the files he had been examining, called his right-hand agent to explain that his visit to Moriarty would have to wait, and headed over to the hospital with a reluctant heart. He reached John's room in the middle of a rather loud disagreement between Sherlock and one of the doctors. The doctor practically wept with relief as Mycroft joined them, tried to explain what was happening, but Mycroft waved him away. Sherlock held his gaze, slightly breathless, his cheeks flushed with anger, his hands balled into fists.

"I want him moved."

"Moved, brother dearest?"

"Moved," Sherlock bit out. "Moved back home."

Mycroft let out a bark of laughter, earning a slightly affronted stare from his brother. "Oh please, Sherlock, even you're not foolish enough to endanger poor John's life simply because your social skills are lacking. What did they do? Were the sandwiches from the canteen not cut in perfect scalene triangles?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the reference to his childhood, and his lips pressed together tightly. Mycroft arched his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation. He felt he had a right to be irritated at Sherlock's refusal to play nicely - Mycroft had secured him complete access to John's room, ensured that the best minds in medicine would be tending to John, and since the sidekick had actually survived, Sherlock had no right to be throwing tantrums. Yet here he was, standing before Mycroft, barely containing his rage.

"He's stable enough to be moved now. If you won't do it, I'll find somebody who will."

Mycroft snorted. "And why, pray tell? This is a perfectly adequate hospital, Sherlock."

"I - don't - care. He doesn't like it here, I can tell!"

Mycroft snorted, casting a glance at the bed. John had a slightly healthier complexion than he had on Mycroft's last visit, although the oxygen mask was still in place and his bare chest was still covered with wires and carefully aerated bandages. A nurse was attending to some of the gauze, and John's eyes twitched beneath their lids as she touched his skin.

"He's unconscious, Sherlock, he has no idea whether he likes it here or not. Just because you've always hated hospitals after Mummy-"

"Do you think you could refrain from bringing Mummy into this, just for once?" Sherlock snapped. He strode over to the bedside, snatched up John's arm. The nurse made a sound of protest, but Sherlock ignored her. "No, Mycroft, I won't let this go. Look! Just look."

Mycroft followed slowly, inspected the slight bruises on John's inner elbow, the small red marks in peppering his skin. "What about it?"

"An intern," Sherlock ground out between his teeth. "I left the room for a matter of minutes, and by the time I returned some child was using him as a pincushion. I won't have it. They have absolutely no idea."

"And how exactly do you propose to do this?" Mycroft said. "You'll call a cab, I suppose, get him up the stairs with the help of your next door neighbor? For goodness sake, Sherlock, you're over-reacting-"

"No. No." Sherlock's anger was building. Mycroft could see it hovering behind his eyes as he glared at the nurse, who hastily retreated. "I have been here for a week, Mycroft, a week, and I have deduced that these people are unable to account for John's care. I'll do it myself if no one else can be bothered, I've read enough of the textbooks."

"I think you'll find medical practice a little more difficult than that."

"He doesn't need to be here."

"He needs attention, Sherlock, you can't look after him by yourself!"

"You have resources, Mycroft, don't pretend you don't!" Sherlock's voice had risen, and they were attracting looks from people who passed by the room. "You've got private clinics, you've got people, haven't you?"

"For emergencies, yes, and I hardly think this is so extreme..."

"Mycroft, will you just..."

Sherlock's hand jumped to his hair, and Mycroft felt a twinge of surprise. Nervous? Sherlock was actually upsetting himself over this? Mycroft took a second look at him, frowning. His skinny frame and too-big shirt indicated he'd been eating as little as possible. His skin was clammy from days spent inside. He was taking heavy, harsh breaths through his nose. His brother had been transformed into a teenager again, mind cemented in the moment, heart over-ruling his every decision, scrabbling for scientific evidence to conceal his desperation... Mycroft wondered just when his brother's life and the life of this retired, unremarkable army doctor had become so interwoven. It seemed now that there was no possible way to draw them apart. He resisted the urge to tut and instead rolled his tongue over his teeth before reaching for his mobile. Sherlock's eyes widened in hope, and then the tension drained out of his shoulders as he watched Mycroft text.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

Mycroft almost dropped his phone. The last time Sherlock had revealed any kind of affection to his brother, he had been fourteen years old and sitting under the big tree in their tiny back garden, Mycroft's arm slung awkwardly across his shoulder, neither really sure how to analyse the news that had just been thrown into their faces by Mummy. Sherlock had shuffled, already such a strange human being, already a confirmed sociopath, and yet his cheeks had glittered with the tracks of tears. And he had said those three stunted words as Mycroft fumbled for a tissue, not quite certain whether he should even offer it or not.

Mycroft managed to rescue his composure and hurriedly set about organizing John's removal from the hospital.

"Well? I assume you have some sort of reason for coming here."

Now, Sherlock's voice was hard as he turned away from John, his bare feet apart on the wooden floor, his arms folded over his chest. He was back in his element, back in his safe little zone of privacy. Mycroft was surprised that the nurse he had hired for the job had agreed to stay as long as she had; it wasn't often that a person from the normal world could bear Sherlock's rather singular attitude.

"Perhaps you could at least try to be civil, Sherlock. This wasn't easy to organize, I hope you know."

"If you're going to leave it hanging over me like some gruesome deal with the devil, you can take him back," Sherlock shot back, fully aware that Mycroft would never do so.

"It's Moriarty," Mycroft said at last, cutting across Sherlock's muttering.

He watched Sherlock stiffen slightly, watched his sarcastic smile fade. His eyes darted briefly to John, and then swiveled back to face Mycroft.

"Well?" he said.

Mycroft looked at him, unsmiling. "He's been asking for you. We thought perhaps you would..."

He let the words trail off, let Sherlock complete the request himself. His brother's face didn't change. Slowly, Sherlock let his arms fall and tilted his head. The nurse at John's side had stopped her work, watching quietly. Even John himself seemed to be listening, on some level of unconsciousness, tapping into the moment. Sherlock held his brother's gaze. Then he uttered a single, definite word.

"No."

Mycroft blinked. "No? Simply 'No'?"

"Not yet."

Sherlock reached for John's padded desk chair, which he had positioned beside the bed, and dropped into it. He put his feet up on the edge of the mattress, scooped up the book resting on the nightstand. Mycroft let out a dark huff of laughter, not sure whether his brother was trying to be funny.

"The world didn't stop, Sherlock," he said, his voice tight. "We're all still working. Moriarty still has people out there. Don't be naive enough to say it's over."

Sherlock looked at him over the top of his book, and a slight smirk tweaked at the corner of his lips. Then his eyes were fixed on the page once more.

"For now, it is. I'm far to busy, Lestrade's just drowning me in case after case... perhaps in a month or two. When John's back on his feet."

"Your selfish, massive ego never fails to surprise me," Mycroft muttered. "Are we all supposed to wait for you?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He was reading, thumbing the corner of the next page absently, settling back in his chair. Mycroft let out a groan of frustration and turned on his heel.

"Mrs Hudson will be brought back in a few days," he threw over his shoulder. "I've taken the liberty to organize that too, seeing has you have completely neglected to do so."

He strode out into the corridor and down the stairs, not waiting for a reply, all too aware of the grin that was edging its way across Sherlock's face. For some unfathomable reason, making Mycroft angry made Sherlock feel elated. For the life of him, Mycroft would never be able to understand why.

John could see the dull, engraved ceiling of his own room high above him. He was burrowed beneath two thick duvets, which effectively left him in an extremely comfortable and extremely warm cocoon of soft, worn sheets. His pillows had been stacked up, enabling him to recline partially upright. His eyes felt gummy and heavy, his mouth dry. He remained still, blinking slowly as the ceiling came into focus, enjoying the familiar smell of his room and the gentle, late-afternoon sunlight creeping through the curtains. It took him a while to notice the steady, soft beep of several machines that were standing around his bed and the plastic oxygen tube running beneath his nose. When he finally did see them - and recognize them as fairy advanced medical equipment - he turned his head, and then tried to sit up. Pain spread through his chest in a hot flare and he froze, lay down again quickly before it could get worse. A dull headache began to sear behind his eyes. He shut them hastily, taking deep gulps of oxygen, waiting for it all to pass. It faded, but his tranquil haven of snug warmth had been lost. He couldn't get back to sleep.

He lay still, staring up at the ceiling through glazed eyes, absently feeling the bandages wrapped around his chest with one hand. Gradually, like rain collecting in a bucket, the details of his encounter with Moriarty came crawling back into his head. He knew exactly what had happened to him; he had been shot. Managed to puncture a lung, too, by the feel of it and the way his chest was so tight and sensitive to every breath. What he didn't understand was a) how he had survived such a point-blank shot and b) why he was now in 221b. He had no idea how much time had passed nor where anyone else was; the flat was surprisingly quiet, and his desk chair had been dragged over to his bedside but was now empty.

Or it was, until the door opened with a soft thud and Sherlock appeared with his mobile in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, one eyebrow sharply arched as he scanned his texts. John felt a heady rush of relief at the sight of him, and then some degree of surprise. Sherlock was holding himself fully upright, paying no attention to his injured ribs. The bruises on his face had completely cleared up. Squinting and raising his head as far as he could, John could see that Sherlock was not wearing a bandage beneath his shirt. For a moment John thought Sherlock's health had miraculously returned overnight. And then he remembered his current position. He must have been unconscious for some time. Sherlock looked up from his text and found John's eyes open. For a fraction of a second, his eyebrows leaped and his throat clenched as he swallowed hard. Then his lips curved into a pleasant smile, and he sat down in the desk chair. He set his mobile down on the bed, took a sip from his cup of tea.

"Good evening," he said coolly.

John blinked at him, feeling a smile spread across his own face. "Hey," he said, bemused. He had to clear his throat, swallow a few times before speaking again; apparently he hadn't used his vocal chords for some time. "This is... Baker Street?"

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. "I disliked the hospital. I got bored."

"Right."

John looked around at the various machines, then lay back against the pillows, still trying to regulate his breathing. Sherlock sipped from his tea, his eyes studying John with silent intensity. John squirmed a little beneath his stare.

"Moriarty?" he said at last.

"With Mycroft."

"Ah."

"You remember what happened?"

John couldn't mask a shiver as the feel of that cold, metal spoon against his skin leaped into his mind. "Yeah, yeah."

Sherlock gave a short nod. "Mrs. Hudson's back tomorrow," he said, his voice still persistently calm. He leaned forwards and retrieved a book from the nightstand, slouched back in the chair with one foot braced against the bedside cabinet. John watched him, eyebrows raised. Certainly no trouble from the rib, then.

"Right, right," he murmured. He turned his gaze on the ceiling. He felt that he should be asking more questions, that he should be talking more, and yet... he didn't want to. He felt undeniably safe. Warm. Home. Sherlock was there. He knew that there were a thousand things to worry about, millions of tiny problems and dilemmas that, given half a chance, would overwhelm him in a flood. But right now, he could think of none of them. He felt wonderfully misty, wonderfully distant. He turned his head to look at Sherlock, watched his flatmate's eyes skim the page, flying over the words. It was oddly therapeutic to watch, and John could feel his eyelids growing heavy. He was reading Hardy. For some reason, John found that thought hilarious. Sherlock, the master of deduction, the scientist and analyst, enjoyed reading novels in his spare time. Sherlock's eyes suddenly lifted from the page.

"Everything alright?" he said lightly.

John smiled, let himself chuckle despite the stab of pain. "Fine," he said softly.

His eyes were too heavy to keep open, and he didn't mind. He closed them and listened to the gentle rustle of paper as Sherlock turned the pages of his book until he fell asleep.

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it. I'd say just one more chapter should do it... :)

Reviews are very welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.